Diary of a Mad Man
by ScorpionInx
Summary: I am and was Jack the Ripper, but you can call me John. John Druitt. Think you know me? Do you dare to know the truth?
1. Please to meet you

October 5th, 2008

History books are filled with more lies than truths. The victorious twist the facts around to suit themselves and after time, the truth becomes lost. Lost in a sea of misinformation and out right lies. Half truths and opinions have become facts in the minds of many.

Between August and November 1888, at least six women were murdered in London's Whitechapel area. The gruesome nature of their deaths caused panic and fear in the East End for months, and gave rise to the sobriquet that was to become shorthand for a serial killer - Jack the Ripper.

Many try to put themselves into his mind to try and understand him. Trying to figure out what it is that turns a man into a monster. They pour over books filled with half truths, opinions and lies.

For more than a hundred years the murders have remained among the world's greatest unsolved crimes, and a wealth of theories have been posited which have pointed the finger at royalty, a barber, a doctor, a woman, and an artist.

They think they know him.

The identity of this infamous killer.

They only know parts of the story. The parts I wanted them to know.

Only I know the whole truth of it. I know it backwards and forewards as keenly as I know myself. As it should be, since this is my story. Or part of it at least. Some things cannot be told. Other things you may not believe. It is of little consequence to me if you choose to believe or disbelieve what I am going to share with you.

Yours till death

John Druitt


	2. Rest in Peace Monty

October 6th, 2008

There should be a preface, I know. Some setting of the stage or manifesto of purpose. I cannot wait. There are other things that must be brought to light first. And other things must be exposed for the lies that they are. Many of them are lies I helped to create.

History calls me by another name. Montague John Druitt. I am him, and he is me. And yet we are not the same person. He exists only becuase I helped to create him. And others have expanded on what little information I had given them.

Montague John Druitt was born in Wimborne Minister, Dorset, England. He was the son of a local surgeon by the name of William. He was also nephew to Robert Druitt, a prominent physician and medical writer. The relations were carefully crafted lies, if people had known the truth, they would have scarcely believed it. I had to create a past, a family, and an identity for this world.

Some claimed that dear 'Monty' was a doctor. Like Sir Melville Macnaghten did when his memoirs were published in 1914.

Rubbish.

As Montague, I was a barrister and a special pleader. I was also employed as an assistant schoolmaster at George Valentine's boarding school. 9 Eliot Place, Blackheath. I began work there in 1881 and was dismissed shortly before my death in 1888.

But if I died in 1888, how am I telling my story now?

What better way to be eliminated as a suspect.

I do not know the name of the man they pulled out of the river. His real identity is not important. What is important is that there was a strong resemblance between us. A simple hair-cut and the proper clothes produced my doppleganger.

His body was found floating in the River Thames off Thorneycroft's torpedo works near Chiswick on December 31, 1888. Medical examination suggested that his body was kept at the bottom of the river for several weeks by stones placed in his pockets.

The coroner's jury concluded that I committed suicide by drowning "whilst of unsound mind."

People are so willing to believe what they perceive as truths.

They saw and knew what I wanted them to know.

My disappearance and _death_ shortly after the fifth and last canonical murder (which took place on November 9, 1888) and alleged "private information" led some of the investigators of the time to suggest I was the Ripper, thus explaining the end to the series of murders.

The killing did not stop there. I simply moved on to another time and place. But that is another story entirely.

Montague was just an alias of mine. A name adopted throughout my many travels. It seemed more fitting for the time.

I am and always will be John Druitt. But I am afraid that I will always remain a bit shadowy. There is not much information available about me in your history books or on your internet. You will not know when or where I was born. Or where I grew up. Or the name of the first girl I kissed. For they have not taken place yet. While you dwell in the now and visit the past, the begining of my story lies in the future.

I will not bore you with the story of my childhood. You are eager to know about the time I spent in London's Whitechapel area. You want to know why I did what I did. And why I wont stop.

For now, I will leave you to ponder the information above.

Yours till death

John Druitt


	3. Once Upon a time

October 7th, 2008

May of 1878. This is where the series of events leading to my first murder began. And credit must be given to the part that George Chapaman played in this tale.

Ah, yes. George Chapman. An amusing fellow. Or should I call him by his true name?

Severin Antonovich Klosowski.

An amusing man, and a fellow 'Ripper' suspect. Without him, I might never have become the man I am today. But that would be giving him far too much credit.

That credit belongs to Suzanne.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

George was a barber there in London. We were friends. And it was not uncommon for friends to go to dinner and often drink more than we can handle. On such an evening we had fallen in to conversations about human behaviors. He was particulary curious about the more extreme and bizarre forms of behavior, including sexual deviations. I told him that I had read about these syndromes but had not yet had occasion to study them in the flesh, as it were - an unintentional pun which he found amusing, which pleased me since I often have difficulty thinking up jokes in an opportune manner. I think the champagne was partly responsible and must have loosened up some part of my mind unsually more constrained. The result was that I was quite amusing, and by the end of dinner George (and I, too) were roaring with laughter at almost everything I had to say.

I remember him saying, "Now we must further our scientific research."

I hadn't the faintest idea what he meant at the time, but went along with it. Thinking back, I was still quite naive in some ways. The memories of one's youth are often bitter sweet.

Before long we found ourselves in front of a house that looked perfectly respectable. It did not take long for me to recognize it for what it truely was.

A brothel.

"Surely, you owe it to yourself to take a look at least. You are a student of behavior. You cannot get it all from books. This is the real thing. There is real human nature inside. Where do you think the professors get their case studies to write about? They are on the other side of that door, waiting to meet you. Why don't you just imagine that it is one of your uncle's demonstrations? I promise you will not be disappointed." George prompted me.

Never having been inside a brothel, I was curious, I'll admit.

George rapped loudly with the brass knocker, and after a minute a spy hole slid open. We were regarded for several seconds. Evidently George was known, because the person behind the door swung it open without a word being exchanged. A woman of uncertain age, not uncultured in appearance, and wearing a sober black dress which covered her from wrist to neck, bade us enter.

"Madame," George said, taking her hand and bowing. He introduced me and informed her that I was to be his guest for the evening.

She led us from the hallway toward receiving rooms from which came the sound of a piano. George was about to follow but I held him back.

"I am just here to observe." I insisted.

He shrugged. "Do as you wish."

"Just as long as that is understood."

"I understand. Your interest is purely scientific."

I looked for the ironically raised eyebrow by which George silently conveyed his amusement at the self-deceptions of lesser mortals, but I could see no sign of mockery.

We passed the main room where I glimpsed a young lady playing the melody of music hall songs which seemed to be on everyone's lips those days. Madame took us instead to a small parlor which appeared to serve as her office. She poured us each a glass of wine. We drank to her health. Then she sat silently, looking at us expectantly.

"Perhaps," she began, looking at me, "if you could give me some idea . . . "

"My friend is modest." George said for me.

"Ah," said Madame, apparently enlightened. She looked at me with a fresh, professional interest and nodded her head thoughtfully.

When she took my hand as if to reassure me, I almost jumped.

"Come now," she said soothingly. "You mustn't be shy. I shan't bite you, you know."

With that she took my hand between her own and held it in her motherly lap while she considered me. I had a feeling of impending panic in which I would be forced to run from the place. Madame stroked my hand while she went through various possibilities in her mind, and I felt the intense emotion quelled to a pricking thrill of the moment. A descent into the strange and unknown.

Curiosity got the better of me. "I would like to meet the . . . "

"Ladies," Madame put in. "But of course. That is the way to begin." I took back my hand and was glad when she turned her attention to George. "And you, sir. You have always known exactly what you wanted."

She rose and bade me follow her. "Let me introduce you to the ladies."

I will end it here for now. It is far more enjoyable to make you wait for more. Such eagerness to know more is very endearing. But patience is a virtue.

Yours till death

John Druitt


	4. Suzanne

October 10th, 2008

I left off in May of 1878, where George Chapman and I had found ourselves in one of the local brothels. The Madame was about to introduce me to the 'ladies'. My first steps into a darker world full of strange and wonderous things. The potential and temptations were hard to deny. And my initial intent of being there as an observer were soon forgotten.

Curiosity killed the cat.

But satisfaction brought it back.

And so my story continues.

She rose and bade me follow her. "Let me introduce you to the ladies," she said. We passed the main staircase, and I was aware of muffled, distant sounds, which I could not identify, coming from the floor above. Madame glanced upwards and gave me a look with an ambiguously raised eyebrow.

George remained in the parlor and we were alone in the hall when she stopped as if arrested by a sudden thought. "If you prefer, we do have boys."

I shook my head.

"They are very accommodating."

"Thank you, no," I said, feeling foolishly polite, as if I were declining a second piece of cake at a tea party.

"One never knows." She shrugged with indifference. "After all, you are a friend of Chapman's," she added with a smile, watching the reaction in my face for one alert moment before she resumed our little tour. "He is a man of such varied interests."

She ushered me into a room which could almost have been the drawing room in the home of a well-off family. The young lady playing the piano was named Lola. She could have been a school teacher. Lola asked me if there was a piece of music I wished to hear; I said I should enjoy some Strauss, and she launched into a waltz which she played with great gusto. A gentleman in the corner whom I had not previously noticed awoke and lurched from the room in search of a dancing partner.

I heard a man's guffaw and the titter of several women coming from the adjoining room and went to investigate. I found a fifty-year-old man reclining on a couch supported by three young women in their underclothes who were draped around him in various poses. With his florid, rotund features and face surrounded by a white beard he looked like a Bacchus from a mythological painting. At some point that night he had been in evening dress, but his jacket and shirt were missing and all that remained on his upper body were his cuffs and collar.

"Take whichever one you want," he called out to me. "Don't let me hold you back, old chap. I'm spent. Entirely spent."

The girls laughed and teased him.

"Please don't let me disturb you," I said, but his attention had already been distracted, and I passed on without further pausing.

The next room might have been a cafe of the bar in a gentlemen's club. A waiter stood attentively to one side, and several gentlemen sat with women of the house at tables. There was a relaxed air in which the men felt it permissible to remove their jackets and drink wine in their suspenders.

I had a fresh glass of champagne. Apparently it was the only drink they served. I was thirsty and drank deeply. I had kept my eyes lowered because I did not want to give offense by appearing curious.

It was then that my path crossed with Suzanne's and the world lurched.

Suzanne was pretty in a precise, symmetrical, wondrous way that I had never known before. Her eyes were long-lashed like a fawn's. Beautiful eyes the color of blue cornflowers. She was dressed like a girl and came forward with a sprightly, insouciant step, brushing her dress with her hands as a girl does who is unused to the outline of adult clothes, as if to suggest youth and innocence. It was play-acting, whore-house make-believe which would deceive nobody.

I could tell you that I had the notions of saving this young beauty. Spiriting her away to a better life. But I would be lying.

When I crossed the threshold her of room, when Suzanne closed the door behind us, I lost all the observing capacity of a scientist, the transmuting spells of a poet, and the tender feelings of a lover. I was a beast.

I make no apologies for my behavior. It was no worse than that of the other clients such women must endure in their line of work.

I will simply say this. No matter how much of a beast I may have been, she asked that I return. And what kind of gentleman would I be if I denied so simple a request?

Yours till death

John Druitt


	5. First Blood

October 17th, 2008

Suzanne had a mannerism of turning slightly to one side as if to give thought to some matter and blinking abstractedly, which I found hopelessly endearing. She was well aware of her effect on me. She teased me with herself, giving small tokens of affection and just as inexplicably subtracting with a cool word or silence.

I have kept one memory of Suzanne close to my heart. It is so precious that I rarely recall it in case I damage its delicate texture, fearing that bit by bit I will reinvent the incident to fill in gaps where the truth has worn away.

Knowing what she was, I still allowed myself to be drawn into her game. A game that lasted several months.

She delighted in play-acting, with me in the role of a jealous lover. The confrontations were thrilling. Angry accusations and hurled insults, to mock weeping and the eventual forgiveness. The adrenaline rush of the fights made it that more enjoyable for her.

I will not deny that I too enjoyed it.

Arguments that always came to the same sticking point: Suzanne, with all signs of sincerity which an accomplished actress can muster, tearfully denying that she is having an afffair. She kneels before me in supplication, in a gesture of humble truthfulness. Or, she kneels before me in supplication: While her body appeals by gesture for forgiveness, she continues to deny that she has deceived me.

Then Suzanne turned me away with no warning or reason.

Too soon did the anger become real.

The jealous lover was no longer just a role.

Call her death an act of passion if it suits you.

During our brief time together, I had learned that Suzanne was known for plying her trade on the streets, beyond the watchful eye of the Madame. She flirted with danger. On the streets there is no safety, not like in the brothel. Should a gentleman get out of hand, the house would have simply thrown him out. Then word would spread to the other houses and he would be forced to seek his entertainment on the streets.

Following her was easy enough. I learned her habits quickly, knowing which district she frequented and who her clients typically were. My plan had been to confront her there on the streets, to play her game one last time. A performance unlike any other.

It was late on the night of our final encounter. The streets were empty and she had just emerged from one of the buildings and into the alley, when she paused to adjust her clothing. At first she had no clue I was there. I emerged behind her, soundless on the street. I could have tapped her on the shoulder, but instead I preferred to wait in delicious anticipation for her to turn and find me there, where before there had been no one. She turned slowly, backtracking, and would have bumped into me if I had not taken a pace back.

"You!" she exclaimed, in a mixture of horror and bewilderment.

She looked as if she would faint from the shock of the surprise, and I took her by the waist as her knees weakened. She sagged in my arms, and I held her to me. We stayed like this for a long moment, her head upon my chest, breathing in unison. I do not know when she recovered her wits, but I suspect that it was several seconds before she stirred against me and at last lifted her head. How that head must have whirred, preparing different fictions to feed me!

Instead of lies, she chose a different course of action.

I let her turn in my arms. She positioned herself so naturally, of her own free will, with her back resting against my chest so that I could look over her shoulder. I breathed in the rich fragrance of her hair. Vanilla and cloves. Together we stared into those dark, misty shadows. With my left hand I made as if to caress her, from the tip of her chin down the soft, creamy skin of her throat.

"No," she breathed, although she could have had no inkling of my purpose.

I pressed forward until I felt the curve of her buttocks against me, and using this as a fulcrum I arched her backward bit by bit, while I held her chin and turned her face aside. At the last moment, she made as if to shake me off, but the cruel edge of the knife pierced her throat. I thrust and pulled, and the blood spurted from her in a great fountain, and I felt a surge of exultation, an ecstasy which I can compare only to the expression on the faces of saints at their moment of martyrdom.

Then, suddenly, she was dead weight and would have toppled to the street if I had not caught her and slowly lowered her to the ground. I stooped to kiss Suzanne farewell, without sensation in my lips. I was emptied and numb. The moment passed too quickly. I felt cheated. It had been too short. The event was like a rock hurled into the river: a violent splash, and then the water closes over it. Life flows on.

I had fulfilled her desire by giving her the ultimate final act as a jealous lover. It is what she would have wanted in the end, of that I am certain.

I dumped her body into the River Thames and returned home. My other home of course. I could not remain in London, my alibi was that I had accompanied my uncle to Budapest. When I returned several weeks later, there was very little mention of Suzanne, even at the brothel. The Madame admitted that she had heard rumors that Suzanne had run off with a young painter and that she was now living in Paris.

Such a charming notion. It helps the Madame sleep at night.

I have never returned to the brothel.

And this is where it ends for now. It would be ten years before I killed again. Ten years of pondering the what-ifs, waiting for the truth to come out. But that truth remained buried, until now. It does not hurt me for you to know what happened. It will not change your opinion of me. You will always view me as a monster. And rightly so. I have done monstrous things and I do not regret them. I am not ashamed of who or what I am.

You cannot reform or save me. I do not wish to be saved, though there are some who have tried. I am what I am.

Yours till death

John Druitt


	6. Ten Years Later

October 20th, 2008

Ten years is a long time to wait. Many things can happen over such a period of time. After Suzanne, the next crime I commited was the murder of Martha Tabram. Another whore done to death in a brutal fashion.

It was August 7th, 1888.

While many will not count her as a victim of the Ripper, I assure you that she was.

Why did I do it?

Why not?

Do not try to give me your moral views of right and wrong. I was fully aware of my actions and their consequences. To put it simply, in a way that you will understand, I did it becuase I wanted to. I wanted to kill her.

It was not personal.

I was not out to get Martha Tabram. Before that night, we had never crossed paths before. She was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I only know her name becuase it is written in history.

Many will say her death was meaningless.

Oh, it had meaning. It meant something to both of us. It was a private moment we shared that few others will ever understand. And I do mean few.

She never felt the first slip of the knife, but she was aware of the thirty-eight that followed. She could not do nothing about what was happening, the first two thrusts of the blade robbed her body of its strength. But her eyes were alert until the very end.

Eyes truely are the windows of the soul.

And through her eyes I could see a transformation in her. The moments that Suzanne had stolen from me. Martha's eyes had been so dull before, worn down by the life she lived. She wanted salvation, freedom from a life on the street. In the end, she found what she was seeking, although it was not in the form she had hoped for.

After the first few thrusts of the blade, there came that spark of life. Her eyes lit up with a renewed passion for life. She was too weak too fight back physically, but if looks could have killed, well, I would not be here.

Her eyes were so vibrant and full of life, even as the lights began to dim. And then, the flicker of life was gone. All that was left was the vacant stare of a corpse cooling in the night air.

When it was over, I basked in the aftermath. Savoring the sweet night air. The glimpse of that final moment when life becomes death had heightened my sense. I had never felt so alive, so invigorated.

Have you ever been on a rollercoaster? Or perhaps you prefer the spooks and chills of a haunted house. Or maybe the first time you ever shoplifted. It is the adrenaline rush. You have tasted it, of that I am certain. And once you have tasted it, you want more. The thrill and the danger makes it addictive.

We are not so different, you and I.

Yours till death

John Druitt


	7. Looking Back

November 7th, 2008

Looking back, I know I gave you more of what you wanted when I spoke about Suzanne.

And I know I cheated you with my description of Martha's murder. I knew you would not be able to fully grasp the horrible things I am capable. You must be eased into this more slowly. Drawing out each moment bit by bit. You cannot have it all at once. It would be too much for you to handle.

Each of them were precious to me in their own way.

That is not for you to understand, but you must accept that fact.

What we had was far more intimate than anything you will ever know.

The next time we speak, you and I, there will be more time for details. I may be compelled to share more of that intimacy with you, but understand, once you know me that well, I have to kill you.

That is just the way it must be.

You are precious to me. Just like the others. And when this is over, I will look back and remember the times we shared together.

Yours till death

John Druitt


	8. Sweet Sorrow

November 20th, 2008

I have enjoyed our brief time together. But the time for sharing has come and gone. More urgent matters have come up and I must attend to them.

Yours till death

John Druitt


End file.
